


The Meltdown

by Mother_North



Series: Dark Matter [4]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, Bitterness, Competition, Dirty Talk, Guilt, Hate Sex, M/M, Porn With Plot, Psychology, Rivalry, Smut, Sochi Olympics, throwback fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mother_North/pseuds/Mother_North
Summary: The young boy thought he bested him, the young boy thought he defeated him and made him retreat…Patrick had all of the desire to prove that the boy was wrong.**Patrick’s and Yuzuru’s clash on the Olympic ice of Sochi takes a twisted turn.





	The Meltdown

**Author's Note:**

> This work wouldn’t have seen the light of the day if not for a constant support from an inspiring and a very talented author Puniyo, who kindly provided a much needed insight and outside viewer’s perspective into my creative musings. I feel sincerely grateful to her for our engaging discussions.  
> Also, this fic may seem a bit disturbing and angst-ridden. I thought I’d better warn you, just in case.  
> Usual RPF disclaimer applies to this fictional work in full and it is not meant to offend anyone.

**

_4.47 points_

Less than five points is enough for your dream to be trampled upon. Less than five points is enough to crush you.

Patrick looks at the scoreboard with three blasted _2_ etching themselves onto his aching heart. He is smiling, though, he has to. He tells himself he has no other choice.

_I am sorry, guys…I am so sorry…_

His pale lips form the words as he finds it in him to look at the camera. It’s all over now, yet the cruel realization doesn’t want to come, it doesn’t want to down on Patrick’s still adrenaline infused mind. He casts his eyes down, to look at his slightly trembling hands as he keeps running his free skate routine inside his head again and again: quad toe loop tainted by a feeling of a ruthless ice surface beneath his palm and then his never changing nemesis  — a triple axel, which betrays him at the most crucial of moments. Of course, it does. Isn’t it _his_ favorite jump, after all? He felt like hitting a wall while launching into that three and a half revolutions and he wasn’t able to make it, no matter how determined or concentrated he willed himself to be — a mental block he failed to break miserably. Patrick’s legs felt shaky towards the end of the skate and he doubled that damned salchow in the combo with triple lutz, half loop between two jumps looking terribly clumsy.

Vivaldi’s aloof serenity was supposed to make him at peace with himself, it was supposed to quench the burning flame of anxiety in his chest but on that fateful evening it didn’t. Patrick flew, his deep edges gliding over the ice with comforting confidence and ever present fluidity, yet there was this treacherous thought at the back of his mind that couldn’t let him become one with the music completely.

_It’s mine to take. It’s mine…He left it for me to take._

Patrick felt a wave of nausea washing over him momentarily and he had to force a lump of acrid bile down his throat. Four years of hard work, buckets of sweat poured while turning himself inside out to prove that he was the best in his own right— having endured all of the hardships only to be defeated when it mattered the most. Patrick went to the changing rooms with a smile perpetually plastered on his face, he wouldn’t let them see him cracked, he is still got a title of a world champion to cling to and he wouldn’t give it away without a proper fight.

The reporters were everywhere, wanting to haunt him down wounded, looking for a glimpse of weakness to feast upon. Patrick felt trapped, his breathing getting heavier and heavier, yet he had to maintain control.

_I am fine._

He couldn’t force himself to believe his own pretense even if there was a gun pointed at his chest. After a round of super irritating, yet absolutely inevitable interviews, Patrick closed the door of his lodging and threw himself onto a bed in total darkness, exhaustion seeping through his tired body. He pulled out his mobile phone and called his parents, their troublous voices seeming impossibly distant, barely able to reach him from another continent. It didn’t help at all and after a couple of minutes of fruitless attempts to feign resignation he hanged up. 

A sudden all-encompassing hollowness spread over his insides and he would have been the happiest person on this planet if sleep would have had enough mercy to take him into its comforting embrace, wiping away all of his thoughts. Total obliteration looked like quite an alluring prospect to Patrick at that particular moment.

_But he fell too. He fucked up too. Two fucking times. And they still wanted him more._

A piercing dart of bitterness made Patrick’s chest ache. Was _he_ truly better? The prodigious youngster, who had hopped out of nowhere to take a figure skating Olympus by storm, to claim what had belonged to Patrick so audaciously. His eye started twitching at the thought of that particular Japanese— his impossibly thin lanky figure, his over-the-top sparkly costumes, his androgynous boyish features and bad posture... How could all of them be so blind? The boy was still too young with not enough masculine vibes and maturity in his skating, his so-called “artistry” failing to impress Patrick every single time. Patrick thought of the two of them as total opposites: flamboyant dramatics and technical prowess against his more reserved artistic style and immaculate skating skills. Patrick’s way of expressing himself on the ice was, perhaps, of a more introverted, but not in the slightest, less sincere nature.

Yet, Yuzuru Hanyu was the one winning _his_ gold today.

Jerking his t-shirt off irritatingly, Patrick changed into a fresh sweatshirt and put on his team Canada jacket for a medal ceremony, which happened to be one more thing he had to endure. Patrick spent some time in front of a mirror to orchestrate a better-suited smile for such a festive occasion as a victory ceremony before going out without looking back.   

**

The air outside was cold, yet pleasantly mild, with unmistakable sea freshness and it was the first full breath Patrick had all night. He tried his best not to look to his left while standing on the podium and he kept on smiling and smiling and smiling, while his whole world was crumbling inwardly. He looked at the two colors of his native country’s flag.

 _Red blood spilled onto the pristine whiteness of ice_.

He felt as if it was his own blood shed on that evening. An overwhelming feeling of defeat was numbing all of his senses as he was listening to the Japanese anthem rising high to the starless sky. It could have been _his_ anthem sounding now. _It should have been_.

Patrick turned his gaze upwards, ignoring a feeling of impossible heaviness, which a silver medal around his neck made him feel. It felt not like a valued prize but rather like a running knot smothering his self-confidence and self-esteem, making him suffocate from inner insecurities.

Patrick waved to the crowd with a tiny flower bouquet in his hand and every time his eyes caught a glimpse of a scarlet maple leaf among the ocean of numerous fans it filled his chest with strangling bitterness.

The _boy’s_ smile was shining brighter than all of the projectors illuminating the scene combined, though. Patrick noticed how the _newly crowned Olympic Champion_ was beaming at his side, practically bursting with pure joy and happiness and he _hated_ him with vehemence.

**

After finally getting into his room again, Patrick went straight to the cupboard and took out a single glass and a single bottle. It was his favorite _cabernet sauvignon_ _._ His initial intent to use this special bottle in order to celebrate his victory had already been crushed and now all he had was trying to drown his sorrows at the very bottom of a heady red liquid. The wine tasted sour and acerbic on his tongue, yet he couldn’t stop drinking. Silence around was oppressing and he switched on a plasma panel at a random TV channel without a second thought. He had to find a way to deafen the voices which were screaming inside his pounding head.

_He is not good enough…I’ve told his era has ended…Poor uncle Patrick is too old now…It’s time to move on…Retire, please, you are laughable…Loser._

The damned choir in his head was not going to shut up even for a minute and it made Patrick throw his wineglass, its fragile form shattering against the opposite wall to pieces. But the worst was yet to come. Patrick heard the first notes of Nino Rota’s “Romeo and Juliet” flood the room, making cold rage seize him with a newly obtained vigor.

They were replaying _the boy’s_ winning free skate. A dark smile twisted Patrick features as he was watching the Japanese skater perform his routine. Patrick’s eyes took in the young man’s slender body: his long willowy limbs, his tiny waist and narrow, yet undoubtedly strong hips. He was clad in velvety black and lacy white and it looked awfully bizarre to Patrick.

_Atrocious._

Patrick wanted to turn off the TV but somehow he found himself continue staring at the way Yuzuru’s back arched gracefully in his Ina Bauer and at the way he bent his knees, his fragile looking chest heaving from exertion, after the end of his Olympic performance. The boy’s black hair was disheveled, his porcelain skin glistening with sweat, pink lips whispering prayers as he was waiting for his marks to be announced in the Kiss & Cry. Patrick’s eyes were boring through the countenance of his bitter rival and an absolutely _wild_ thought flashed inside his feverish mind like a lightning, illuminating its darkest corners with a lurid and abominable desire — _to subjugate_.

The insufferable boy at the other side of the TV screen hid his face, doubling after hearing his _280.09_ as a total sum for his previous efforts. He realized full well that he provided Patrick with a chance, with a golden opportunity, which the latter managed to blow with his own hands. Patrick’s heart leaped inside his chest, frustration making his eyes sting.

 _He_ thought he bested him, _he_ thought he defeated him and made him retreat… But Patrick would prove _him_ wrong; _oh, yes_ — he definitely _would_.

Patrick jumped to his feet and after not sparing his forsakenly looking silver medal a single glance, stormed out of an empty room, leaving the closed door and his own sanity behind. 

**

After a fifteen minute walk, Patrick found himself staring at the door of Yuzuru’s habitation. The hardest part for him was to make his facial expression remain neutral while asking where team Japan young ace was accommodated but Patrick managed to cope with the task successfully and there he was — standing at the threshold with no return, his alcohol infused blood ringing in his ears.

Patrick knocked without hesitation and after a couple of minutes, which seemed like an eternity to him, the Japanese opened the door. Patrick’s eyes flashed at the sight of genuine confusion on Yuzuru’s face.

“Will you let me in? I need to talk to you.”

Patrick didn’t have to imagine the look on his face at that moment because he saw it reflected in Yuzuru’s dilated pupils. Patrick mused whether it was fear as the youngster stepped aside to make a space for him to come in.

The room was dimly lit and the bed was unmade. Perhaps, the boy was getting ready to sleep, for it was already quite late. Patrick turned to look at Yuzuru, who was biting his lower lip nervously while his eyes were scanning Patrick’s face with mute question vivid in them. He looked tired, his paper-white paleness highlighted by his ridiculously long, outworn black t-shirt. Its length barely went past Yuzuru’s thighs, providing Patrick with a view of the young man’s long legs.

“You want something?”

A question asked quietly in a heavily-accented English brought Patrick out of his reverie, as he blinked, without even realizing that he had been staring openly.

“Are you satisfied? I mean with your today’s victory? How does it feel to be the only _falling_ Champion in the history of Olympic Games?”

Patrick saw Yuzuru’s gaze darken as his shoulders tensed, his body taking on a protective stance.

“Better than feeling a _loser_ like you, believe me.”

Yuzuru turned away, signaling that he had no intentions of continuing their pointless conversation, but before he could even make a step, Patrick’s hand closed around his thin wrist with a bone-crushing force.

Ptrick’s heartbeat was accelerating. Cold rage was washing over him, fueled by a haughty look on Yuzuru’s chiseled face. The obnoxious boy was daring to look at him with obvious condescension and Patrick felt his blood boil.

“You better bit your tongue, boy, or…”

“Or what..?”

Yuzuru’s eyes were sparkling defiantly as he was trying to free his arm from Patrick’s strong grip.

“Or I swear I’ll find a better use for it!”

Patrick’s threat was met by a spiteful laugh and, all of a sudden, he felt himself losing it. Remnants of his reason and self-control were going down the drain swiftly, the boy’s impudent face being impossibly close to his flaring one.

Yuzuru didn’t expect Patrick take him in his arms and throw him on the bed violently. He felt like a mere rag doll in Patrick’s clutch. The Japanese didn’t have time to react to Patrick’s assault properly, yet his laughter died in his throat in an instant.

Patrick’s muscular frame was now pressing Yuzuru into the bedsheets with his whole bodyweight and he felt himself trapped, his breathing acquiring a panicked pattern.

Patrick felt Yuzuru squirm beneath him helplessly, the boy’s eyes going wide and his t-shirt being wrapped around his narrow waist, his lower half naked, except for the thin layer of his black underwear.

The senior man’s hand sneaked down between their bodies to rub Yuzuru through his briefs and he gave a sharp squeal to Patrick’s utter satisfaction.

An overwhelming urge to make Yuzuru feel _defeated_ and _humiliated_ was throbbing in Patrick’s veins, his breath coming in short gasps as he was looking down at Yuzuru’s shocked expression. But the situation started to change in no time, as the Canadian felt Yuzuru’s strong legs wrap themselves around him in a vice-like grip, making it hard for him to breathe, his ribs interlocked with frightening force.

It looked like it didn’t take long for Yuzuru to accept the challenge and he wanted to have an upper hand in their unexpected clash — if Patrick wanted their battle for dominance continue, he’d fight him till the very end and he had no doubts that he would come as a victor eventually.

Patrick was caught off guard by a sudden change. The look of Yuzuru’s impossibly dark eyes was scorching him, momentarily helplessness forgotten, giving way to an instinct of a fierce competitor. Patrick knew _this particular gaze_ all too well, after seeing it during numerous shared tournaments and he felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

Yuzuru slapped Patrick across his cheek and a burning sting made the Canadian’s vision cloud.

_Little bastard._

Patrick caught Yuzuru’s hands and pinned them above his head, overcoming the boy’s frantic thrashing and drinking in the view in front of him: Yuzuru’s eyes were blazing wildly, his every fiber trembling with indignation. Patrick’s gaze stopped at the boy’s succulent lips which were quivering from rage and a barely contained excitement as he suddenly realized that he wanted nothing less than _devouring_ him.

He wanted to make him beg, he wanted to make him feel worthless after having accepted his utter capitulation at Patrick’s retributive hands.

Yuzuru’s tiny intake of breath didn’t escape Patrick as he started to grind his hips down forcefully. He was feeling himself getting harder with each passing moment, a delightful friction created by their bodies making him acutely aware of his perverse, yet potent arousal.

_Dirty whore._

Patrick grabbed Yuzuru’s chin and forced his tongue into his mouth, claiming him in a bruising kiss. The boy beneath him trembled and moaned into the kiss, his fingers scratching Patrick’s neck with short-nails, the blunt pain spurring Patrick further down his lust and rage-induced spiral.

Patrick’s coarse lips found their way to one of Yuzuru’s protruding collarbones and he sucked at the milky skin there, wanting to mark his _prey_ while savoring the taste of a heated flesh. Yuzuru keened softly, biting his swollen lips and the _neediness_ of the sound made Patrick’s head swim with maddening desire.

He despised himself for it, he hated Yuzuru for awakening it, yet he couldn’t battle it, even if his life would have depended upon it.

_He wanted to divide and conquer and so he would do just that._

Shutting off all of coherent thoughts and sending his common sense to hell, Patrick yanked Yuzuru’s briefs down, to his thin ankles, in one harsh motion. Patrick dipped two of his fingers into Yuzuru’s mouth, its silky wetness making him groan. Yuzuru’s dark eyelashes were trembling against his flustered cheeks as he felt Patrick taking him into his warm palm. He was stroking the boy firmly, his thumb teasing the sensitive underside and Yuzuru couldn’t bite back a moan of shameful pleasure, his young body responding to the sensual stimulation inevitably.

The view intoxicated Patrick, his breath hitching, as he was watching Yuzuru’s face contort from the overwhelming sensations. Yuzuru turned his head to the side abruptly, trying to hide himself from Patrick’s searing gaze.

The desperate want _to possess_ Yuzuru made Patrick’s hands shake as he took his achingly hard cock out of his pants. Sucking one of Yuzuru’s earlobes, he whispered lowly, his hazy mind struggling to form connected words:

“The lube…Something…I need… _Now_.”

Yuzuru’s eyes flew open and he smirked, finding Patrick’s badly concealed, stammering urgency to be highly amusing.

“I hope you fuck better than jump triple Axels.”

_That impossible rascal._

Patrick watched bewildered as Yuzuru’s stretched languidly to take out a tube, of what looked like an oily cream, from one of the bedside drawers. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Yuzuru’s bewitching countenance, his expression changing from innocent to salacious in an instant, making Patrick stare at the young man confusingly.

“You look just like when you saw your scores today…Funny.”

The Canadian fumed.

“Can’t wait getting fucked, huh? You little slut.”

Yuzuru’s snide comment had snatched Patrick out of his momentarily trance and he hissed his response menacingly.

After wrestling the boy back onto the bed, he pulled the Japanese’s legs apart roughly and forced two of his lubed fingers inside his tight body. Patrick watched Yuzuru’s brow furrow in concentration, his lips pressed into a thin line as he was struggling hard not to make a sound.

 _Patrick would have none of it because he intended to see Yuzuru fall apart_.

He was lapping one of Yuzuru’s pert nipples as his fingers were sinking deep into his velvety heat. Patrick knew _what exactly_ he was looking for and after finding the right angle, he started to brush Yuzuru’s sweet spot with each of his aimed thrusts. Patrick was basking in the feeling of his power over Yuzuru, each of the young man’s sensual groans leaving him breathlessly thrilled.

Yuzuru’s skin was glowing beautifully, a pink flush spreading over his smooth chest, all the way up to his graceful neck. Patrick saw he was close and he chuckled at the possibility of making Yuzuru come with nothing but his fingers.  

_Alas, it was not enough for Patrick because he wanted to take the boy so badly it hurt._

Having positioned himself between the young man’s bent knees, Patrick slid into his heavenly tightness, his vision tunneling from thundering sensations. Yuzuru’s loud cry felt like the best reward to Patrick and he started moving at once, without letting the Japanese adjust properly to his powerful thrusts.

It felt like drowning to Patrick, having _all of him_ — spread open before his greedy gaze, his very being vulnerably naked for him to revel in; Patrick’s wild thirst _to overpower_ Yuzuru made him groan from the fierceness of his desire.

Patrick watched Yuzuru’s hand move to his right, over the battered bedcover, to grasp a round object _made of g_ old into his delicate fingers, as unblemished fulfillment was ghosting over his perfect features. Patrick couldn’t prevent his sweaty palm from following the same path: the coldness of lifeless metal beneath his trembling fingers in sharp contrast to Yuzuru’s lively heat engulfing him.

Patrick’s pace became frantic.

_If only he could have had the both of them._

Everything started to blur in front of Patrick’s eyes.

His sacramental dream had turned to ashes. It was killed today and now it was buried deep inside of him — forever unreachable; it made him feel like dying too because it _hurt like hell_.  

The rhythm of Patrick’s hips stuttered as he felt Yuzuru clenching around him divinely, acute pleasure shooting through his body, making his toes curl. Patrick screamed, coming painfully hard, his tears mixing with his sweat. He heard Yuzuru’s quiet sobs, as he was holding the boy’s shivering body in his deadly grasp, hardly able to move from the intensity of his orgasm.

_Feverish. Unrelenting. Soul-destroying._

**

Patrick didn’t register how he managed to get to his room but he remembered the view of his trembling hands over the bathroom sink vividly. He was feeling absolutely hollow, his emotions burnt out. Patrick stared into the mirror at his own reflection, his cheekbones sharpened from exhaustion. Suddenly, he felt like crying again but the purifying tears simply wouldn’t come. He yearned for relief —wanting to close his inflamed eyes and erase the last couple of hours from his memory forever but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do so for a long, long time.

The following morning Patrick dialed his coach and said that he wanted to take an extensive break from competitive skating.

_He dreaded the possibility of facing a certain boy who had defeated him more than once in more than one way._

**

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is appreciated. Thank you.


End file.
